Page 72 of Sinful Lies

I didn’t bother responding.

Instead, I stormed into Lazzio’s office, slamming the door behind me with a satisfying thud.

“Voglio sapere tutto. Ogni singolo, maledetto dettaglio della vita di quel bastardo. Cosa diavolo sta facendo adesso? Dove cazzo si trova? Con chi cazzo è?”

I walked to his desk, his back turned as he talked on the phone, standing in his favorite spot by the window, eyes scanning the New York skyline.

He didn’t even bother turning around—he knew it was me.

I dropped onto his desk, legs crossed, and grabbed one of the Bagels & Jo bags Grace had left behind, rifling through it casually.

“Voglio una lista di ogni amante che ha avuto, ogni donna con cui è stato. Lo stesso per sua moglie—ha qualche amante? Trova tutto. Ogni sporco segreto. Voglio sapere tutto,” he ordered.

Oh, he was pissed.

Verypissed.

I kept digging through the bag, my fingers brushing past crumbs and paper until I found what I was looking for—a vanilla cookie, topped with blueberry buttercream frosting. His favorite, and mine too.

The second my fingers brushed against it, with some sort of cookie-detecting radar, he whipped around, phone still glued to his ear. His brows furrowed as he stalked toward me, snatched the cookie right from my hand, and took a bite.

“Perfetto,” he muttered before hanging up and slouching back in his chair with a sigh.

He carefully placed the cookie on his desk, but not before laying a napkin under it, as if the desk might suddenly sprout a deadly virus.

Such a germ freak.

“The two new floors have been done for a week, yet you’re still dodging the one thing I need—a date for the exhibition, so we can announce the opening,” I said, arms crossed. “This isn’t like you, Lazzio.”

He reached into the bag, his fingers brushing my thigh just enough to make me pause, then pulled out a bagel, unwrapping the foil. Salmon, green onions, and spicy cream cheese—his usual.

He bit into it without even glancing my way, acting like I didn’t exist, while his eyes locked onto the computer screen.

I leaned in closer. “You know, it drives mecrazywhen you ignore me.” I let my fingers slide slowly up my leg. “Makes me want to push your buttons even more.”

He stayed silent as he scrolled through his emails.

The longer he pretended I wasn’t there, the more I wanted to make himseeme.

I shifted closer, letting my leg brush against his hand.

His jaw tightened. His eyes remained glued to the screen, though I noticed the muscle in his neck twitch.

“Lazzio—”

His desk phone suddenly chimed, cutting me off, and he tapped the red button, his jaw working as he took another bite of his bagel.

“Sir, the security crew just called. James Greg took the elevator up and is on his way to see you. He’ll be here any minute. Should I tell him you’re not in?”

James Greg.

Founder and CEO of Greg Oil Inc., the biggest oil company in the West.

His son, Liam Greg, had become the COO after he’d married Katie Kingston a couple years ago. We had been invited to Tulum for their wedding, and it had been by far the most extravagant, over-the-top display of wealth I’d ever witnessed.

I’d never forget the hotel, the crystal-clear waters, the over-the-top luxury—those buff waiters with their chiseled abs…

“Sì, you can let him in.”

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